


'Tis the Season

by JoanieLSpeak



Category: American Gods (TV), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Christmas, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Hannibal Extended Universe, Hannibal-ish, Hugh Dancy - Freeform, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Mads Mikkelsen - Freeform, Winter Solstice, Yule
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-14 22:38:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13017624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoanieLSpeak/pseuds/JoanieLSpeak
Summary: A short-ish one-shot set in the American Gods 'verse. Old St. Nick (Mads Mikkelsen) runs into a jabbering, drug-addled new god (Hugh Dancy), and the two bitch and moan at Christmastime.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tyler_Durden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyler_Durden/gifts).



> Inspired by:
>
>> So I drew Mads Santa, American Gods style.  
>  Also because people seemed to enjoy this thread as much as I did hahh >> <https://t.co/SC20sCFrxn> [pic.twitter.com/xzCtpcDFHv](https://t.co/xzCtpcDFHv)
>> 
>> — FlyingRotten❄️エリアス (@CamilleCailloux) [August 6, 2017](https://twitter.com/CamilleCailloux/status/894192010671906817?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw)

Nick was a generous man – tall and broad-shouldered – but not fat. Never fat. And he sure as hell wasn’t jolly. He was often mistaken for a homeless man or a veteran. His white beard and oversized clothes didn’t help in that regard, and he was called _gramps_ or _pops_ by people who didn’t know any better. Hipsters called him _old timer._ He never corrected them. There was nothing to correct.

Across the lamp-lit street, a lady screaming broken English was holding a pack of cigarettes. He was a dollar short and the ATM wasn’t coughing up anything willingly. It was that dark time of year when everyone was stingy, and the machine was wholeheartedly on board.

He kicked it. He ran his fingers down each sticky button. He swore into the camera, but the mechanical teller remained unconvinced.

“You piece of shit.” He kicked again.

“Rough it up! I think you can take it!” said a pithy voice behind him.

He stopped. Black water splashed from racing taxi tires, and Nick slowly peered over his shoulder. “It’s got nothing left to give. Find another one.”

“And yet you’re still trying with this one,” said the man. “You never give up. Good for you!”

“Move along.”

That face – the pithy one – popped around his arm, sniffing its dripping nose. “Coming up short, I see. Well, ’tis the season to be empty, I suppose.”

Nick wrenched his black coat tighter around his shoulders and turned to leave. That face stepped right in front of him.

“You look cold and destitute,” said the face. “You look homeless, too, and that’s a shame. Can I buy you a coffee?”

“No you may not.”

“A coffee and a chat – that’s all I ask. Surely you can agree to that,” he said, sniffling again. “The air is crisp! The sun is down! It’s a time to get excited! A time to be generous, am I right? I’m nothing if not generous. And this is my favorite time of the year!”

There was nothing exciting or generous about the man. He was dressed in a long camel-colored coat, leather gloves, and brown tweed slacks – business-y and not exciting. His brown hair and trimmed beard were as stiff and unmoving as the wallet strapped to his ass. He looked like an average Joe with a lot of spare change to count.

“I’m disinterested, son. I’ve got nothing to share.”

“That can’t be true. You look ample of spirit. And your cheeks are pale and your nose could use a good reddening, too. Maybe not coffee. How about something to put a little _jingle_ in your bells? I know a place that serves one hell of an eggnog. Coffee or nog, pick your poison.”

This suddenly not-so-average Joe was going to pester him regardless of how he replied, and since Nick had nowhere to be, he agreed.

The restaurant was a block away. They walked in silence. When they reached the door, they were welcomed and waved inside. _Take your seat at a stool_ , said the waving hand, _enjoy the fire in the corner and the one about to coat your tongues and fill your bellies._

The not-so-average Joe shrugged off his coat, draped it over a stool, and sat. Nick kept his coat on but joined him.   

“New York City on the very first day of winter …,” said not-so-average Joe. He rubbed his hands together as a wide smile showed off his pearly whites.

Nick cleared his throat. “You dragged me down here to talk about the weather?”

“Everyone talks about the weather; it’s how we relate. _Cold enough for you? They say we’re gonna get three inches …_ I’ve always preferred a little more than that, but I don’t judge.” He sniffed his nose.

The bartender silently approached him and then stood, waiting. “A scotch and Coke for me, and for my white-bearded friend here, an eggnog – heavy on the bourbon; he’s having a rough night.” The bartender nodded and shuffled away. “So how are you getting along here? Good? Not good? Should I introduce myself? Maybe I should.”

“You seem to lack basic manners. I’d expect nothing less from you than a rude introduction after ordering me a drink I don’t want.”

“Well, why didn’t you say something?!” Not-so-average Joe sniffed his nose and straightened his silk houndstooth tie. “Doesn’t matter. I’m the one paying for it, so I’ll order exactly what I want. You’re penniless so you don’t get a choice. That’s how this works.”

“I guess I’m not your guest. Or is your head so far up your ass that you’ve forgotten how invitations work?”

The man hissed and smiled as a glass of eggnog dropped to the bar. Nick stared at the cinnamon stick threatening to poke out his eye if he took a hasty sip.  

“They are festive, are they not?” said the man. “It’s the holiday spirit. It’s in cinnamon now. Did you get the memo? Who needs benevolence when you have pumpkin spice?”

Nick took a swig and licked his lips. “I take it you know who I am.”

“I do indeed. But I’m curious as to why right now – when it’s your time to shine – you’re Scrooge-ing around downtown. Shouldn’t you be galavanting around a mall this time of year? Playing with your toddler followers? Changing a couple diapers?” He gulped his drink.

“Charity’s dead. What would be the point of galavanting?”

“For fun.” He smiled. “And Charity’s not dead. Give her a couple more days. When people start scrambling, she’ll come back. Probably strapped to a goat in Africa, but she’ll come back. Imaginary deadlines bring out the best in people – you know that. Hey!” He snapped his fingers and the bartender returned.

“When do you get off?” asked not-so-average Joe.

The bartender glanced at Nick and murmured to himself. “Not ‘til four. Why?”

Not-so-average Joe grumbled and dismissed the bartender with a wave. He turned back to Nick. “What do you do on Black Friday, anyway? Do you hide? I always imagined you hiding in a darkened theatre or behind the dumpsters at a porn shop – I don’t know why. Please tell me you go shopping for your Secret Santa.” He chuckled to himself and sipped his drink. “You should hang around malls. They’re dying too. This new generation loves photographs. You should get on board with that. They’re all lonely fuckers with a shit-ton of dogs. Go to a mall. Pose with some fucking dogs. Make a mint selling holiday dog shots to childless millennials looking to piss off mom and dad. That’s still in your skill set, I think.”

Nick coughed and scratched his chin through his thick, yellowing beard. “Am I supposed to know who you are? Because I’ll be damned if I’ve ever seen or heard of a pissant like you. You’ve heard of me, of course, because I’m actually notable. What the hell are you?”

“I’ve heard of you because you’re an old fucker. I’m an old fucker too, but I didn’t get the same press as you until – good fucking god – the sixties? Then _wham_ again in the eighties. I’m settling in nicely now since the Boomers are dying off and they fucked up their kids so badly.”

Nick ignored him and wiped the pale cream from his own mustache. “I’m listening if you’ve got something worthwhile to tell me, otherwise, I think I’ll be on my way.”

“I know you’re listening to me regardless of what you say. You’re fading away. But you don’t have to fade away. You just have to reinvent yourself. Loosen your rules a little bit.”

“I’ve already loosened my rules, and I’ve been reinvented over and over and over again. I’d rather fade into jolly fat postcarded oblivion than fight my way back into the minds of people who don’t deserve what I have to offer.”

“Big words for a big man, and bah humbug to you, too. You don’t mean any of that, Nicky.” He finished off his scotch and Coke and ordered a second while Nick chewed on the cinnamon stick. “When the sun gets low, you and I offer very similar escapes, you know that?”

Nick sighed. The heat of the restaurant was gathering around his neck. He yanked open the collar of his coat and leaned on the bar. “Similar in what respect?”

“At one time you offered relief from the darkness. You were a rope when everyone was drowning in death. Food stops growing, sky empties, people are stuck wallowing inside, and you come bearing gifts – how sweet of you. You offered that tinge of hope. You let the people know that they weren’t alone and that the sun just might come back if they’re good. And _look at all these pretty presents,_ you’d say!” The not-so-average Joe laughed, tapping his palm on his forehead. He then swiveled on his stool to look out the window. “And now look at them – shuffling around in their peacoats and fancy scarves. Still hungry, still cold, and even more empty than they were hundreds of years ago. They could use your generosity now more than ever, and they choose to ignore you.” He chuckled, glancing at Nick’s sneer. “Laugh, fat man, it’s funny!”

“Similar in what respect?” repeated Nick.

The man scowled mockingly and turned back to the bar. “I offer them what they can’t find elsewhere: stability within the gloom of their own minds. I relieve them of nightmares. I let them get up in the morning. I allow them to pretend to be normal for just a little bit longer. I give them the ability to cope in the greedy little world that they themselves created.”

“For a pretty penny, of course,” mumbled Nick.

“Of course, a man’s gotta eat. You and me, we aren’t so different, you see? It’s just that what _you_ do comes from here.” He fist thudded against Nick’s chest. “And what I do comes from here.” He shook his cupped hand under his own chin and then snapped back a mouthful of nothing. “My way’s easier, so I win.”

“You’re a plague.”

“Now that was a naughty thing to say. Here I’m being nice – I gifted you that refreshing beverage and you lob names at me? It’s no wonder the people love me more. You’re rude as hell.”

“Don’t confuse habit with love, you little shit.”

“They can’t live without me. There is no purer definition of love, Nicky.”

Nick shook his head and drained his glass, casually glancing around the room: two exits and a set of doors leading to the kitchen. He had options if things headed too far south.

“Getting antsy?” asked the man. “I can treat that. First one’s always free.” He grinned.

Nick traced the lip of his empty glass. “What do they call you?”

“I’m a man of many names, like you. _Pharma_ to my friends. _Bill_ to my followers. _Hefty Bill_ to my long-timers.” He snickered. “Not as hefty as you, though.”

“I prefer _little shit.”_

“You’ve obviously never met Tech,” laughed Bill. “More eggnog?”

Nick shook his head, his fingers now strumming the bar and his eyes focused on the red and green bottles lining the wall behind the busy bartender.

“I will give you something,” said Bill, “The kids. Even I think it’s fucked up what they’re doing to them. _We won’t lie to little Jimmy. That’s wrong,_ they say. So the kid grows up knowing nothing about you. And then he turns eight and can’t sit still so they introduce him to me instead. I mean, good for me, obviously; I get a lifelong follower. But hell, it leaves a bitter taste in _my_ mouth ... I guess it’s not _that_ bitter.”

“Man’s gotta eat,” mumbled Nick.

Bill smiled and clapped him on the back. “That’s the spirit! I knew you still had a little gumption left, you cynic.”

Nick turned to glare at Bill’s smug grin.

“Don’t let me get under your skin, Nicky, Jesus Christ. You’d think you would’ve grown a thicker hide after all these cold winters.”

“Your end is nigh, little man. They didn’t have you two hundred years ago. They won’t need you soon enough.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Nicky. Hey, if it makes you feel any better, suicide rates _don’t_ go up in the winter. If anything, people are more likely to off themselves in the spring, so blame the Easter bunny. Then again, people drug themselves in the winter; maybe that has something to do with it. A lot of cold, lonely nights to suffer through ...”

Bill snickered, checked his buzzing phone, and stood, sliding on his coat. “Everyone wants a taste of me when the lights go out, and I can’t say I blame them. I’m fucking delicious.”

Nick rose to leave. Bill grabbed his shoulder, pressing him back onto his stool.

“Another eggnog,” Bill called to the bartender. “More bourbon this time, and _two_ cinnamon sticks – a little extra spirit for my new sad friend here.”

He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his coat and set them on the bar. “Cancer sticks,” he said, tapping the pack. “Merry Christmas, Pops. And don’t forget to smile. ’Tis the season to be jolly!”


	2. Chapter 2

The week before Christmas was considered a “spirited” time for the city's homeless shelters, animal rescues, and soup kitchens. Each year, the saint watched the affluent (and slightly less downtrodden) wallow over one another to donate spare change and ratty towels, toss unwanted toys in bins, and ladle diluted soup into less-fortunate mouths. It was a fun weekend project that cleansed the generous masses of an entire year’s worth of neglect and sin.

Though distasteful, Nick was compelled to take advantage of this seemingly bogus generosity. It was the unrelenting reason for the season, and it temporarily stifled his bloody cough and lightened the growing weight on his head.

Nick walked the empty snowy streets. Piles of ice trapped cars and slowed garbage trucks, leaving artificial snowmen full of plastic cups and wrapping paper guarding stoops and street corners like little tin soldiers.

Nick lit his cigarette and ducked down an alley. Beyond the far end and around the corner, past steaming manholes and a wall painted with a giant yellow cock bearing antlers, was a strip joint. The women inside wore red and green tassels on their nipples and made a show of getting their stockings stuffed with dildos. Nick’s head was held a little higher that day, so rather than pass, he ducked inside.

Beer and cheap cologne hit him in the face. His frozen fingers followed the wall and he took a seat in a booth near the back. Staggering men in baseball caps and scarves tripped around the dimly-lit room, pissing off waitresses with their drunken apologies – but at least they were apologizing.

Nick pulled a dog-eared and overexposed photo from his coat pocket. The half-inch round face of a young girl was framed by a snowy forest. The face had avoided creases over the years, but the forest was cracking and flaking away.

He ordered a beer. Then he put away the photo and ordered a second. He smoked and letched at the twirling tassels that spun around garland-covered poles. Then he ordered a third. When the bottle arrived it brought with it an unwelcome, red-nosed party-of-one.

Bill slid into the booth and ordered a drink. “Cold as flying fuck out there. And what are the godforsaken chances I’d find you here?” He pulled a small vial from his coat pocket, unscrewed the cap and shoved it under his nostril with a snort. “I was just talking about you to a bunch of disenchanted teens. They called you a _phony_ – can you believe that? Little shits. Who the fuck says ‘phony’? I set ‘em straight and you’re welcome. Didn’t have time to fawn over you, though – the cops asked me to leave. Apparently playgrounds are off limits to me, which is the biggest crock of shit.”

“What do you want, imp?”

“What everyone wants this time of year, Nicky! To have a good time! I want to feel the nip in the air and rejoice with some glitter-covered tits.” Bill chuckled as he thumbed toward the stage covered in scantily clad women reenacting the birth of Christ. “But this is a house of ill repute, Nick. Shouldn’t you be out licking babies or tying a big ol’ bow around some bastard’s new cock? What are you doing down here with us degenerates?”

“Looking for glitter-covered tits, same as you,” he said.

Bill laughed and ogled the gilded wise-women lurching across the stage. “Well, you can’t deny it – they’re well decked. Please tell me you aren’t here to _help_ them. Nicky, they don't _need_ help. Sluts are celebrated now.” He snapped back his drink and leaned over the table, lowering his voice. “But we can’t call them _sluts_ anymore. Tut tut – we’re being naughty. We have to call them _feminists_. They’re _artists,_ Nicky, like Michelangelo or Prince or some shit.”

Nick clawed at his sweaty, itchy neck and downed his beer, waiting for the addict to shut up. “What the hell do you want?”

“Business first, pleasure later – you’re absolutely right. I have a proposition, because I hate to watch a dear friend dying – especially around the holidays – it makes me hurt in _here.”_ He pounded his fist against his chest and smiled.

“I’m listening.”

There was a hesitation from both as Bill waited for Nick’s eyes to lift from the table to meet his. When they finally rose, he continued, “One word, Nicky: _consumerism._ You’ve got to get onboard or you’re going to miss this beautiful boat.”

Nick grumbled and cleared his throat. There was something lodged in the back of his mouth. His chest heaved and he coughed up a wad of phlegm that bloodied his hand. He wiped his red lips on his coat sleeve and lit a cigarette, still avoiding Bill’s eyes. “What makes you think I want to set sail with the likes of you?”

“I’m an accomplished fisherman and an excellent captain, and only fools _want_ to die,” he said, tapping Nick’s bloody fist. “You’ve walked this earth for what? Two thousand years? And you’re going to let one generation of selfish pricks take that from you? They _owe_ you, Nick. They owe you more than a couple of catchy songs and a tinsel-covered coffin shoved in the basement.”

“I don’t think you understand how this works, little boy. They don’t owe me jack shit. I’m not here to take advantage of people in their hour of need. I’m here to reward the righteous and punish the ill-mannered. That's it.”

“Saint Benevolence is apparently too good for this life.” Bill leaned back in the booth. “Your _rewards_ aren’t what the people want anymore, and coal doesn’t work on these cretins. You give them candy canes and warm fuzzy _feelings_ – both dissolve in minutes. They don't want that shit. They want more drugs, more toys, more opportunities to fuck each other. They want it all, Nick. And no one can afford a white picket fence anymore. They want a life they can’t have, money they can’t earn, an ass they don’t deserve, and profound enlightenment from their goddamn phones. You gotta step up your game or you’re going to lose them all.”

The waitress returned. Bill glanced at Nick, waiting. “You want anything? Another beer? Something else? We can get out of this hellhole. Just say the word.”

Nick shook his head, so Bill sent her away.

“Nick, listen to me. You can’t just lie down and give up.”

Nick grumbled and glanced at the stage to watch Mary of Nazareth drop her robe to reveal a blinking g-string. “What’s your sudden fascination with me, you little prick? What do I have to do to get you to stop hounding me?”

“I’m opportunistic, friend. I find you interesting! There’s a lot to be gained from you and I hooking up. Consumerism drives my business. This new generation has too many empty holes that need filling. They use me and they can use you, too, but reinvention is _key._ The new gods, they don’t get it. They want you all rounded up and shot. But I know your worth. I was old, but I reinvented myself, and now the world is sick and I have doctors passing out my scripture like candy.”

“Leading your pitch with my own exploitation isn’t a great business tactic,” said Nick as the waitress dropped another beer in front of him. “You’re not selling it, kid.”

“You’re right. Can you taste my desperation, Nicky? I’m not ashamed. I’m laying it all out there for you. You’re a generous man, and I’m in need of some help. Let’s help each other out of this mess.”

“Threats and demands didn’t work,” said Nick. “So now you’re trying to butter me up?”

“This is what I’m saying! You’re a saint! You’re a businessman! You’re smart. Stupid assholes don’t keep their followers for thousands of years. Wrap up the season and sell it with me. Make a mint, old boy! Strength in numbers!”

“Why chase after _me?_ There’s a kid in Montana – he’s all about debauchery. Go harass him.”

“That slutty little candy-ass is doing fine on his own. And I can’t compete with that shit. He’s gross and negligent even by my standards.”

Nick chewed his lip, flashing sharp teeth and a tongue tasting the bloody corners of his mouth. “Let’s say I’m interested,” he said, studying the bottle on the table. “Why should I trust a desperate junkie?”

Bill’s hands rose in front of him, palms out. “What have I ever done to you, Nick? You’re a trusting man, and I’m an open book. I don’t lie. I don’t cheat. I’m a hard worker who could use an honest business partner; that’s all.”

Nick nodded slowly and fingered the cold condensation around the neck of his beer. “Did you put something in this?”

Bill scoffed and watched Nick bring the bottle to his nose. “Why would I do that?”

“Why indeed?”

“It’s not what you think,” said Bill. He snickered under his breath. “It’s just something to help you relax. You’re high-strung, Nick. It’s bad for your heart, and you look like shit. The alcohol’s already knocking you down a peg; I was just trying to help you get shitfaced a little faster. I told you, I’m generous like that.”

It started as a low grumble vibrating from Nick’s throat – he looked utterly amused and confounded. His laugh then filled their corner of the strip club, raising the hair on Bill’s skin.

It went on for minutes, with the addict staring nervously at the laughing saint. Nick finally composed himself. “That was a very rude thing to do, little boy.”

“Rude, sure – I should have asked, and now I know. But no harm done – I’ll get you a new one.” Bill snapped his fingers at the waitress, but the saint dismissed his concern.

“You said we could get out of here. Where’d you have in mind?”

Bill smirked and lowered his hand, a toothy grin spreading across his face. “Anywhere, Nicky. I own this town.”

“Someplace private, then. Undisturbed.”

“I have a penthouse,” said Bill, his haughty snicker trailing off into the festive music of the club. “It’s lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree and on top of the world. Feels just like the North Pole. You’ll love it.”


	3. Chapter 3

Dogs nipped at his bare feet as he was dragged over ice, his arms and legs bound by thick ropes tied to horses. His flesh was a black silhouette against the white snow. Wet rags were no longer wrapped around his frozen skin, letting the rocky earth tear at his back as they moved.

He blinked. The sky shone bright and blue, flecked with birds diving at the edge of a cliff.

He blinked again and it blurred into a dark, thatched roof.

Wood smoke filled his nostrils and he snorted. Hooves beat outside and men gathered and spoke of the horrors they’d seen up the mountain. He listened, but he paid no mind.

His foggy head ached and burned as he lifted it, then let it fall, slamming against a straw mat. He was bound to the walls with chains, gagged with a cloth, and left hungry.

His head rolled to the side when he smelled her. A little girl was crouched by the hearth, singing sweetly as she drew lines and pictures across a flat stone with a charred stick.

He huffed through his nose and she jumped.

He grunted and she stood, staring at him in the dim firelight.

She approached slowly. “You were naughty,” she said.

His long tongue soaked the soiled rag in his mouth as he listened.

“Vegeir was my brother, and we want him back,” she stated clearly.

His tongue worked the rag from his mouth, and he hacked, spitting blood at the girl’s feet. He bared his fangs, but the girl stared, unmoving, unflinching, charred stick in hand.

“Vegeir was _nice._ He did nothing wrong. You are mean and heartless, and you took my only brother.”

His shoulder throbbed and he looked down. Bloody rags surrounded a spear tip protruding from his chest.

“You scared Vegeir,” she said.

His eyes returned to her and he growled as the stick cracked his bare thigh.

“Mama said you were a nice old man, but you scared her.” _Whack!_ It stung his naked belly, and the girl stepped closer.

“Papa said you were an honest man who lived in the mountains. He said you’d bring us gifts if we were good, but you scared him, too.” _Whack!_ It smacked the broken spearhead and he flinched.

She jabbed the stick under his jaw as she leaned over his cold, black face.

“You hurt my friends with whips. You take them while they sleep. You make the children fearful of the woods.” She dug the point deeper into his throat. “You may scare the others, Claw, but you don’t scare me.”


	4. Chapter 4

The cold glow of LEDs makes the penthouse feel like the inside of a refrigerator. Strings of garland with blue and white lights spiral down every column and banister, giving the apartments an eerie luminol-like glow. Music plays from somewhere – a low thumping that fades as they walk from room to room.

“Living room,” says Bill. He tosses their coats over the white couch facing a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. They look out over a dark but decorated city. “Kitchen’s back there. Master suite. Three bathrooms. You want a drink?”

Nick barely nods and Bill heads to the bar at the far end of the white and gray living room. There is no tree, or presents, or stocking hanging over the lit fireplace. A visit from Santa had apparently not been anticipated.

A marble figure of a man in robes dominates the center of the penthouse. The stone man holds a staff adorned with a twisting snake, and the entire piece is wrapped in colored Christmas lights – a permanent, makeshift tree.

Bill returns with two old-fashioneds, handing one to Nick. “You hungry?”

“I’m always hungry.”

“You smell like shit.”

Nick sighs and swirls his drink, studying the inside walls of the glass.

“Just bourbon and bitters, hand to god,” says Bill.

Nick sneers and gulps it in one swig, setting the glass on the statue’s pedestal. He nods to the bedroom at the end of the hall and leaves Bill by the glowing marble god.

The saint showers in the master bathroom and redresses in his dirty clothes. The steam makes him cough and choke, spitting balls of black, bloody tar into the toilet. He trims his beard down to a cleaner, but still shaggy, scruff. He hasn’t slept in days, but trimming his face makes him look a thousand years younger, regardless of his bloodshot and saggy eyes.

When he returns to the living room, Bill is nursing his drink on the couch. He falls back to sit next to him, and they stare over the flickering city.

“They all hate me,” says Bill, fogging the inside of his glass with a huff.

“You’re easy to hate.”

From his pocket, Bill pulls a prescription bottle and dumps a mound of little white pills into his palm. He offers the pile to Nick, who declines. “They love to hate me. It’s sort of our _thing,”_  he says and then tosses the handful into his mouth.

“They love us, they hate us, they fear us. It’s cyclical.”

“Who fears Santa Claus?” He scoffs. “Do you listen to yourself?”

Out the window, Nick stares at the busy creatures and cabs scurrying around the streets below them. “Oh, they fear me, too.”

“They fear not getting all the precious shit they ask for, and you have nothing to do with that.”

“Are we here to talk business, or are you throwing yourself a pity party? I’m not interested in the latter.”

Bill clenches his eyes and rubs his forehead. “I’m not up for either,” he says.

On that note, the saint stands and grabs his coat. There’s no reason to stay if they aren’t going to discuss a partnership.

Bill stops him with a tug. “We’ll talk – I have ideas, just sit. Give me a minute to think.”

“You’re strung out and drunk, and I’d rather be asleep on the curb than here listening to you bitch.” Nick stares down at the desperate man who’s refusing to meet his eyes, watching him down the rest of the drink. Nick doesn’t leave, however, or sit. He simply waits.

An unpleasantness hangs in the air – an awkward disgust that they both share. It’s thick and infused with a hunger that wants satiating.

Bill sniffs his nose and rubs his eyes to hide his face. “Do you want to mess around or do you only fuck reindeer?”

The once-muffled music suddenly fills the quiet room with a sickeningly sweet rendition of _Santa Baby_. Bill grabs the remote on the table and the room falls silent. “If you aren’t interested, get the fuck out.”

When Nick clicks his tongue but doesn’t move, Bill finally stands, rattling the bottle in his pocket. He nervously approaches and Nick tosses his coat back on the couch. Here is as good as anywhere, he supposes.

Without words, they undress – Bill drunkenly, but with haste – Nick slowly while he studies this lonely creature stripping in front of the great expanse of New York, his ass bare for all the world to see.

Then Bill scans Nick’s nude body and steps back. Something is growing across the saint’s chest. He reaches for the dark webbing that leaches over his skin, but his wrist is wrenched away.

He’s twisted around, and his back is drawn to Nick’s chest as the saint slowly inhales Bill’s scent of cheap, spicy cologne and sweat. One hand grabs Bill’s swelling cock and the other grips a handful of hair as they look out over the twinkling city.

“Do you like the lights?” asks Nick.

Bill whimpers and his head is yanked over the saint’s shoulder.

“I've always liked the lights,” says Nick. “Easier to find my way to the children. When they were candles, I could warm my hands, but not anymore. Now they’re a joke – a cold, tasteless eyesore.”

Beads of sweat roll down Bill’s face and his hot breath turns bilious. Nick forces him around and drops to the couch, dragging Bill onto his lap, and their bellies press together – a thick cloud of sweet bourbon puffing from their lungs.

The saint’s flesh tastes like charcoal and malt – tannic and acrid though finishing sweet. Bill lifts his face when his lips begin to chill. Long black veins spread over the skin he’d been kissing.

The air cools and their breath vaporizes. Bill watches as the body he writhes against shivers and darkens. He blinks, but his eyes can no longer discern what’s happening to the figure beneath him.

Fingers scrape down his body, gouging red channels from his shoulders to his lower back. When he objects to the twinge down his spine, he’s yanked forward, his cock grinding against Nick’s stomach.  

Clawing hands puncture his waist, blood now gushing from the wounds. Bill hollers, sluggishly lurching forward again. He tries to pull away, but a burning ache erupts over his belly and chest where his sweat-soaked stomach freezes to the saint’s dry, frozen flesh. Bill breathlessly moans through the fog around his head, teeth chattering, until something pries its way into his mouth.

A long tongue counts his teeth and laps at the dregs of bitter alcohol clinging inside of his cheeks.

The claws in his back then clench and rock their hips together. The pain slowly fades as his blood fills with opiates. Then friction, loneliness, and the addict’s self-inflicted delirium bring him an unprecedented ecstasy.

His head is yanked back again, his exposed neck kissed and sucked as their bodies lurch together. Bill grunts and comes across Nick’s stomach.

When he finishes with a groan, his head is released and it rolls forward. Exhausted and intoxicated, Bill watches the white angelic halo of his guest gently fade into shadow, as ribbed black horns coil from the top of the saint’s scalp.

Bill tries to speak, but his voice shakes and disappears. He tries to breathe, but his lungs fail to expand. He twitches, and blood stops flowing through his icy veins. He’s unable to move, but can still feel the sting of teeth gnawing and tearing at his neck.

The saint swallows his mouthful of bloody flesh and clears the phlegm from his throat. “You’ve been a terribly naughty boy, Billy,” he growls. “Now what’s to be done about that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I regret nothing because Bill got Krampus'ed, as it should be.
> 
> Also, I tried to mimic Gaiman's style (poorly – I will admit it was a poor attempt. Mr. Gaiman is a god), but at least I kept my _tumescent_ prose to a minimum. *winks and finger-guns Tyler_Durden*
> 
> Please kudo and comment if you enjoyed this. Comments are like high fives. Don't leave me hanging, man; it's fucking embarrassing.


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